Vic found himself thinking about the previous night’s events at the Moondial Lounge, unable to shake the ominous feeling that the bartender had put that guy—or worse, someone innocent—into a dangerous situation. He decided he better at least check out the area to put his mind at ease.
It took a hell of an effort to will himself out of bed. After a fierce battle with lethargy, he rolled out and got dressed in his weekday finest—black shirt, pants, oversized boots, and a duster. He grabbed a pop from his fridge and hopped in his car, which started on the fifth try—not bad.
The short drive to Lake Westfall, and the beginning of the road running alongside it, provided nothing of interest. It seemed the drunk had made it home safely. But, after going around a hard bend and clearing the line of trees blocking his view, Vic discovered that he was dead wrong.
Just past the trees, where the water hugged the side of the road, a cop car was parked with its red and blue lights flashing. The moped Vic had seen at the Moondial Lounge the previous night sat in front of the cop car.
“Shit,” Vic said, moving to the side of the road and coming to a stop. “I should've followed that guy out.” But he hadn’t—yet another mistake in his lifelong line of blunders. Maybe one day he’d get something right the first time.
A portly officer wearing sunglasses—who Vic recognized immediately—stood next to the moped, writing in a notepad.
“Officer Barbrady. How are ya?” Vic said, amused at his little joke.
“Dammit, Vic,” the officer replied. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that? You know good and well what my name is, and you will address me as officer Carlsberg.”
“Sounds good, champ. What’s the situation here?”
Officer Carlsberg shook his head and stuffed the notepad in his back pocket. He tugged at his pants and pulled them up some. “Welp … I patrolled this road last night around midnight and didn’t see anything. Then I came back down about a half hour ago, and there’s a moped sitting on the side of the road.” He lifted his hat and wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. “I ran the plate, and it belongs to a Thomas Stafford. I don’t see any signs of a disturbance, and there’s no missing person report. I’m guessing the fella either ran out of gas, or he was snockered up on the booze and ditched the bike here. Either way, I’m gonna swing by his house and see what his story is.”
“Sounds like you have it under control,” Vic said, walking to the edge of the water. “Mind if I take a look around.”
The officer walked toward his car. “Be my guest. There’s nothing to find, though. I’ll have Thomas come and pick his bike up. Unless it turns out he was drunk, then I’ll have it towed.” He chuckled, climbed in the driver’s seat, and drove off.
“Moron,” Vic said, turning his attention to the moped and inspecting the gas tank. With a firm grasp, he twisted the gas cap off and found the contents of the tank to be empty. The cop was right on one of his two guesses, but Vic didn’t believe it was because he actually checked. In fact, officer Carlsberg hadn’t investigated the scene whatsoever, because what Vic found next was disturbing.
Something blue was hidden amongst the green and brown reeds near the water’s edge. Vic reached in and pulled out a bike helmet. “Did you run out of gas, Thomas? Or did something happen to you?” he asked aloud. Checking the front of the helmet and seeing the deep gouges on the outside, shredded chinstrap, and blood splatter gave him the answer. “You ran into foul play, huh? Carlsberg is such a piss poor officer.” The little voice in his head told him that he wasn’t much better, to which he agreed, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to think that Carlsberg was a moron.
An object sticking out of the mud, near where the helmet had been, caught his eye. “The hell is that?” When he realized what it was, it almost made him jump—and it would’ve, if he hadn’t already been desensitized to such things. He knelt and plucked a bony hand from the water. “It’s not everyday you find a human hand in skeleton form lying around, is it?”
Had the skin still been attached to the hand, Vic would’ve suspected another human being of committing the atrocity. There weren’t any alligators in Raven’s Hope, so unless there was a really weird bastard going around adding to a secret skin collection, the signs pointed to a supernatural situation. One name came to him and he hoped he was wrong. “Please tell me this wasn’t you, Billy.”
Vic shoved the hand in his duster pocket and got in his car. He knew this situation had evolved past dumb-dumb’s pay grade. It would be up to him alone to find the answer. “Guess I’m not getting the day off,” he said to himself, sighing heavily. Thumbing the steering wheel in a rhythmic beat, he considered his next steps … until something else crossed his mind. It was a fleeting thought, but enough to pause his orchestral thumb tapping, and turn his attention toward the backseat.
Maya’s amateurish notebook rested on top of the unused booster seat. He stared, not intending to do anything with it. But, curiosity got the best of him and he snatched it, flipping through the pages until his eyes fell upon words that piqued his interest. The sharpied title at the top of the page read: “ALERT AT MOONDIAL LOUNGE!” Vic rolled his eyes—of course she wrote it in all caps.
He rested the notebook against the steering wheel and kept reading:
Seventeen disappearances on Westfall Lake Road in the last three months! All in the same exact spot. Nobody has said anything about it—No media coverage, no police coverage, no mayor coverage. These MURDERS happened and didn’t even make the newspaper, leaving everyone in the dark about it. I managed to get my hands on some public documents that nobody else had ever bothered to look at. The victims of all seventeen of these disappearances had last been seen at the Moondial Lounge. Some people reported watching them leave the bar, drunk off their butts, and drive off in a vehicle. Witnesses gave detailed descriptions and those same vehicles were later found abandoned on Westfall Lake Road.
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I approached the bartender, Rudy Halfglass, who was less than cooperative. He told me, in harsher words, to buzz off. What an attitude on the guy, acting like he didn’t remember talking or seeing any of those people and that the situation wasn’t his problem. One hundred percent chance he’s lying. I guarantee he is playing a large part in the disappearances. I could see right through his beady eyes and sweat-stained shirt.
Some of the police reports show signs of a struggle at the scene. Of course I couldn’t squeeze any info out of the cops, either. I think I’m going to ask the paranormal advisor, Vic Owens, to see what he knows. From what I gather, he frequents the Moondial Lounge far more than the average Raven’s Hope resident. At the same time, he seems like he might have one of those couldn’t care less mindsets. I guess I’ll find out when I talk to him.
I miss my parents. Something bad is happening in this town with all the disappearances and violence. It’s all linked, even to the death of my parents, I just know it is. I really hope Vic can help me.
“It’s a damn diary, not an investigative piece.” Vic closed the notebook and tossed it on the passenger seat. But it was more than the simple musings of some ordinary girl. Maya had found a link to something that Vic, and the authorities of the town, had been unaware of. He was angry that this girl, who didn’t know him, had pegged him as a soak. Worse though, was that she was right. Not only about his drinking, but about the Moondial Lounge issue. Vic had seen it with his own eyes now and couldn’t blow it off as a coincidence. It made him ill inside admitting it, but he needed this human, her mind, her help. Years had passed since he’d been a useful member of society, and this might be the ticket to landing on the right track and cleaning Raven’s Hope up at the same time. He missed not feeling like a sad sack of shit.
Vic drove to the payphone in town and dialed the number on the front of the notebook, still struggling internally on if he was making the right call.
Someone answered. “Maya’s Investigatorial Services and Podcast.”
Vic leaned against the booth and burst into laughter. “Oh boy, that’s rich. Aren’t you embarrassed saying that out loud? Is ‘Investigatorial’ a real word?”
“You’re rude! Of course I’m pretty sure it’s a word.” There was a long pause. “W-who is this?”
“It’s Vic Owens.” He leaned his arm against the booth and rested his forehead against it. “Look. I believe you. About the Moondial Lounge incidents, at least. The Nines thing I’m not sold on, yet. I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but let’s work together on these disappearances. You supply the knowledge and I’ll provide the muscle, if need be.” A desire quickly crossed his mind. “Oh, and I’ll require payment for my time.”
There was no response on the other line, until Maya finally said, “You have some nerve calling me and making demands. You were very rude to me before and essentially told me I was a loon. Apologize.”
“What?” Vic asked.
“Y-you heard me. Apologize for being a butt … and I’ll agree to partnering with you.”
Vic stood tall and glared out the phone booth glass at random people passing by, taking out his pent up rage by imagining blasting them with laser eyes. He understood fighting Maya wasn’t going to get him anywhere and if he wanted to do right by himself, and the town, he was gonna have to suck it up. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m sorry for calling you a shining example of a complete fucking nutjob.”
Maya cleared her throat. “You didn’t use any of those terrible words before, but I’ll accept it as your pathetic—but best you’re capable of—attempt at a full-hearted apology.”
Vic had to laugh. Maya spoke a bit like a goody-two shoes, but she knew how to strike with a forked tongue when she needed to, a trait he could definitely appreciate. “Sounds good. What about the payment?”
“Sheesh, don’t be so demanding. We’ll figure the payment out later. I’m not busy right now, so come pick me up and let’s get started. You have my address, since you stole my notebook.”
“Hey! I didn’t ste—”
But she had already hung up the phone.
Vic drove to the address on the notebook and parked on the street in front of the house.
BANG!
The car backfired as usual, and Vic got out, meaning to go ring the bell. Maya came jogging out before he could even close his door.
“How are you out here so fast?” Vic asked. “I just pulled up.”
“Your rusted out boom cannon is louder than a fire whistle,” Maya responded, cheerfully. She invited herself to the passenger side and hopped in the car.
A woman appeared in the entryway of the house, her arms folded across her chest and a scowl adorning her face.
“Who’s that?” Vic asked, leaning his head into the open car window.
“Oh, she’s my girlfriend, Chelsea,” Maya said. “She thinks you're nothing but bad news and that it’s a horribly stupid idea to work with you. But she’ll be OK. Let’s go!”
Vic slapped the roof. “OK. Yep. Sure. Guess we’re moving on your clock.” He got in and started the engine.
“Told you so,” Maya said, smiling at Vic.
“Told me what?” he asked, driving away from the curb.
“That all these disappearances are linked. And they’re not random disappearances, but planned murders carried out by The Nines.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” Vic lit a cigarette while steering with his knee. “We’re going to start on the bottom rung and see where it takes us.”
Maya slapped the dashboard hard, causing Vic to wince at the possibility that the non-working airbag might deploy—it remained non-functional. “Now that we’re a team, where do we go next?”
“First, we make a stop at a place I think will steer us in the right direction and give us the upper-hand.”
“Awesome!,” Maya shouted. “Where’s that?”
“Somewhere lively and full of knowledge.” Vic chuckled, knowing she’d be disappointed when she saw where they were headed.
They sped off to a place of wonder and excitement.